


Five Ways Donald Said "I Love You" Without (Those) Words

by pollitt



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-13
Updated: 2007-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways that Donald says "I love you" to Timmy without using those words specifically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Donald Said "I Love You" Without (Those) Words

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Maverick for beta, encouragement, the prompt, and nudging me until this was done.

(1)

"Look, unless there's some very real, very serious threat to my life--and honestly doc, that's the only thing that you could say that would convince me--you're just going to have to work around it." That Donald could string two sentences together was amazing, given the amount of pain meds the attending doctor had given him.

"Donald, darling, maybe you should--" Timmy said in his concerned, reasonable tone while his /shaking/ hands smoothed the hair at Donald's forehead.

It was either a testament to the progressive attitude at the hospital that no one had even attempted to bar Timmy from following Donald's gurney or the staff was used to seeing Donald in their rooms, and knew them both by name and sight by now and preferred avoiding the scene they knew both men could create by keeping them apart.

"No," Donald said adamantly, shaking his head. "I'm not letting them do it."

"Mr. Strachey, Donald, if you don't let me remove--" Dr. Norris began his medically sound explanation for the fifth time since Donald had been admitted with a fractured hand from a case gone south.

"Forget it, Ben. I don't care if the bone sets weird, it'll give me street cred. You're not cutting off my wedding ring."

 

****

(2)

"You know, when I purchased steaks earlier this week, my intention was not to have to slap them over your eye," Timmy says, opening the brushed silver first aid kit. " I rather prefer to cook them with a nice sautee and vegetables."

"And here I thought it was ESP, and you know I only deserve the choicest cuts of meat," Donald answers, his attempt at a grin only serving to open the cut on his lip again.

"Mmm, no." Timmy's lips are set in a tight line as he produces a chemical ice pack from the kit. "Well what do you know, it looks like we can save the steaks for dinner afterall."

Timmy breaks the crystals in the ice pack and presses Donald's hand and the ice pack back over his eye.

With his good eye, Donald watches as Timmy's gaze shifts from the contents of the first aid kit to Donald, assessing his injuries, deciding what to clean and attend to first.

The kit had been a gift from Donald years before, when Timmy had known virtually nothing about attending to cuts and bruises (and the occasional gunshot wound) and grew a little green around the gills at the sight of blood. But despite all that, he had insisted on taking care of Donald's wounds, digging through the plastic basket of assorted first aid supplies to find gauze and winding up using scotch tape to secure it in place. Since the day Donald presented Timmy with the box, Timmy has kept it fully stocked as his mastery of the finer points of first aid have become almost as good as a real M.D. And no doctor that Donald's ever seen has taken care of his wounds with a fraction of the care that Timmy does.

It's the reason Donald gave Timmy the box--aside from the selfish desire never to have to remove a duct taped bandage and losing body hair ever again--by tending to Donald's hurts, cataloguing them, Timmy can ensure they're cared for right. That they begin to heal immediately and under his watchful eye.

Donald hides a wince as Timmy gently takes his free hand and extends each finger checking for breaks or sprains before sliding his palm under Donald's, holding his hand still as he wipes the dried blood from his knuckles. Donald curls his fingers down and lets the pads of his fingers brush over the back of Timmy's hand. Timmy looks up for a moment and meets Donald's eye and smiles, pushing back the hair from Donald's forehead and placing a kiss at his hairline.

Next Timmy presses softly on the swell of Donald's lip and appearing satisfied at the level of swelling, or lack thereof, he kisses the cut before pulling the ice pack from Donald's eye.

"Can you open it?" Timmy asks just out of Donald's good eye's field of vision.

"No, I think that's good an shut right now."

"We'll keep the ice on it for a while and I'll get you some Tylenol. And I'll make a warm compress before bed." Donald can hear Timmy close and latch the first aid kit and walk it back to its home behind the bar.

"So I'm gonna live, doctor?" Donald asks, twisting his torso to see Timmy.

"You're not going to be pretty, but you'll make it." Timmy presses two pills into Donald's hand followed by a glass of water.

Kissing the top of Donald's head, Timmy whispers. "You'll make it"

 

****

(3)

The Strachey men aren't exactly known for their soft edges. They played the kind of sports that left them, and the other guy, bleeding and bruised, and more times than not they'd be likened to a bull in a china shop. Donald had enlisted in the army not just because he wanted to, but because that's just what they did.

So it would probably surprise some to know the one lesson above all other that George Strachey had driven home to his young son, one piece of advice that he insisted must be followed when Donald grew up and got married.

Every Tuesday without fail, a delivery person from Adele's drives to Timmy's office and delivers a bouquet of flowers, removing the bouquet from the previous week. And every week the fresh bouquet arrives with a card that says "Thank you."

 

****

(4)

Timmy doesn't know it, but Donald has spies *everywhere*. He's been accused more than once of being protective--the first person who dared to add an "over-" to that word was going to get Donald's fist in their face--but in the case of Timmy, there is literally nothing that Donald wouldn't do to keep him safe.

The call comes in while Donald's still in the office, and while the news isn't a life-or-death situation, Donald's still thankful for the insider information. He thanks his contact and tells Kenny he's heading home, don't forget to lock up.

A quick stop at the grocery store; wine, pre-made lasagna, salad in a bag, French bread and a bouquet of the gaudiest flowers he's seen since the last time he picked up flowers there, all make it into the grocery basket, through the checkout and into the car before the engine even has a chance to stop cooling.

Timmy arrives home right as Donald's getting the food out of the oven. Dr. Watson beats Donald to the door and Timmy is rubbing him behind the ears when Donald gets close enough to give his husband his own puppy dog eyes.

He takes Timmy's coat, letting his fingers skim over the back of Timmy's neck as he does so, and hangs it up in the closet.

"Before you ask, I had a--" Timmy starts to say, the tension and resignation in his voice as clear as anything.

"No talking about work. I've got dinner ready, wine chilled and some Tony on the stereo. I've got plans for tonight and they don't include wasting any breath or brain cells on anything other than you and me."

"I--"

Donald stops him with a kiss, running his hands up Timmy's chest and curving around Timmy's neck. "No. Do I have to bring out the heavy guns?"

"Is that a promise?" Timmy asks, mischief creeping into his voice. It makes Donald's knees weak.

"It can be." He smiles the smile that he knows Timmy can't resist.

He takes Timmy's hand and begins to lead him toward the kitchen and their waiting food when Timmy stops him, tugging his hand and pulling him back for another kiss.

When they break apart, Timmy's eyes are soft, love and gratitude pushing aside the tension. "Donald."

"Food, then dancing." Donald touches Timmy's chin, taking his hand and leading him the rest of the way to the kitchen.

 

****

(5)

"What part of 'and this is my partner' did he not understand?" There's a fire in Timmy's eyes as he loosens his tie and pulls off his suit jacket. Donald stands in the doorway, watching as Timmy stalks with barely coiled anger, _possessiveness_. Possessiveness over him. That thought goes straight to Donald's dick, which is beginning to show some interest.

"He was an ass. If I had 'property of Timothy Callahan' tattooed on my forehead, I still think he would have said it," Donald answers, loosening his own tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

"I would've popped him in the mouth if he'd tried anything." Donald can't help but raise an eyebrow at the thought, remaining silent as Timmy seethes. His tie askew and his shirt untucked, Timmy stops in front of Donald, the anger being pushed aside by a look that has all the hairs (as well as a few body parts) on Donald's body standing on end. "No one's allowed to say those things to you but me."

Donald reaches up and traces his finger over Timmy's brow to his cheek, pressing his thumb past the seal of Timmy's lips and teeth. "I don't want anyone else to."

Timmy's teeth close over Donald's finger for a moment before his jaw slackens and he pulls Donald's hand away and pulls Donald against him, kissing him.

They make it to the bed without incident, tugging at one another's clothes, leaving a trail until they're naked at the center of the bed.

"I'm yours," Donald says against the heated skin of Timmy's neck. "Only. Yours."

Donald shifts, lifting his hips and pulling Timmy down and against him. "Please."

He can see Timmy's question in his eyes, even if he can't bring himself to say it. It shouldn't be as sexy as it is, but where Timmy is concerned, Donald's more than a little biased. Donald lets his legs fall wider, and he can hear the thanks in the broken sob that escapes Timmy's chest before they're kissing again, deeply, a little wildly.

Timmy pulls away just long enough to reach into the bedside table.

The first press of Timmy's fingers make Donald suck in his breath, and arch his back. Only Timmy can do this to him, has ever made him feel this way.

And then Timmy's fingers are gone and Timmy is pushing into him, slowly, speaking against Donald's lips, into their kiss, words Donald can only catch a couple of, but those words fill him completely.

"Yours," He answers, feeling the truth of that deep in his heart.


End file.
